Actually, Cyb (she's my shopping enabler) and I went shopping while Lloyd napped and Ryan stayed at the house and worked on a new D&D scenario for their gaming group. I bought her a cast-iron skillet and a laser toy for their cat.
Lloyd had gone for a checkup by his Primary Care physician Friday morning. Although he got a good report, he was very morose because I had driven him in my car instead of his. He thinks I am lording it over him because he can't find the keys to his car. Well, I put them away for good reason. His driving skills are deteriorating from lack of use as well as the Alzheimer's. The last time he drove, my teeth were on edge the whole time.
Anyway, we went out to Riverside Park late Sunday afternoon - in his car (but he asked if I would drive, so I said "Sure"). That seemed to make him happy. He agreed that he would wait for the weekend to go to Omaha to see his elder daughter, so that I can go with him. As he doesn't remember the last couple of times we have gone to Omaha, I am developing a reluctance to go in the future.
WOOHOO! The count meter is over 1000 today.
The word of the day for January 19, 2009 is "random" Pronunciation: \'ran-dəm\
Etymology: Middle English, succession, surge, from Anglo-French randun, from Old French randir to run, of Germanic origin; akin to Old High German rinnan to run — more at run
1 a: lacking a definite plan, purpose, or pattern. b: made, done, or chosen at random [read random passages from the book]. 2 a: relating to, having, or being elements or events with definite probability of occurrence [random processes]. b: being or relating to a set or to an element of a set each of whose elements has equal probability of occurrence [a random sample] ; also : characterized by procedures designed to obtain such sets or elements [random sampling].
Our quote for the day is from Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1845), U.S. poet, critic, short-story writer (as it is the 200th anniversary of his birth). quoted in Julian Symons, The Tell-Tale Heart: The Life and Works of Edgar Allan Poe, pt. 1, ch. 12 (1978). Broadway Journal (1845):
Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good.